Blinding White
by StriderX
Summary: Tag for episode "As You Were".  What if Van Horn had been a better shot?  What if the dress Whites of Neal's uniform hadn't come out quite so white? Alternate ending fic.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** A quick tag for Season 3's episode "_As You Were"_. Call me the cruel hurt/comfort writer, but I'd wondered during the episode what an alternate ending to Neal's confrontation with Van Horn would have felt like. It's really a one-chapter piece, but for the sake of suspence, I'm posting it in six small mini-chapters.

Oh, and as a side note, sorry Van Horn's lines aren't exactly what they should be...writing off memory doesn't work so good when you have no memory to speak of.

Enjoy.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or basic plot.

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><p><strong>1<strong>

"The guards have left their post…Peter? Peter!" Neal tapped on the receiver in his ear as hard as he dared. Great. Comms are down. Snorting out a curse of frustration, Neal moved on blind instinct. If comms were down, something was wrong. If something was wrong, he needed to get Jimmy out sooner than soon. Personally, he didn't see much to like about the guy, but he meant a heck of a lot to Jones; that was all Neal needed to hear.

He was up and gliding down the hall before he'd even thought about the danger. There was a small window in the first white door. Jimmy. Cuffed to a chair, bleeding, disoriented. A quick pick of the lock and Neal would rush in as the quiet savior, get Jimmy out and finish the job. Down on his knees, he whipped out a pick from his pocket and set to work.

The hall was silent, only the soft clanking of metal clicks reminded Neal he still had ears. The pick was lodged half-way in the lock. Just one more…

_Swish!_

Suddenly, a steel arrow flew just inches from Neal's face, into the door-jam just below his hand. Purely on reaction, Neal jumped back in fright, falling on his backside. The look on his face was one mixed of things so unnatural to him: panic and fear.

Out of nowhere, like a lion stalking prey, Van Horn slid into the hallway with murder in his eyes. There's a heartless black crossbow in his hands, a malicious smirk on his face. "Did you actually think you could get away with this? I'm gon'na enjoy killing you."

Even in panic, it's clear to Neal that the first arrow had missed his head on purpose. Van Horn wanted to stalk him, to hunt him. Leaning back helplessly on the polished white marble, Neal decides running is his only option…even if it _is_ what Van Horn wants. Ignoring the green laser mark settled on his chest, he spins as quickly as his adrenaline-trembling limbs would allow and bolts down the hall, desperately searching for a way out.

Van Horn is pleased. He'd been hoping for some _excitement_. He took his time loading a new arrow and following Neal down the hall. He knew exactly where the corridor lead. Neal did not.

With nothing but the pounding thud of his heart, Neal finds a winding staircase and all but leaps down the steps. _There_. A sharp turn to the right. Out of the corner of his eye, Neal spotted the double doors he prayed would be his freedom. If there's one good thing about arrows, it's their firing limits compared to bullets. Manically, he reaches out, praying the glass will give. Clammy fingers wrap around the handles and he pulls with all is weight…

No give.

Yanking hard, refusing to believe the truth, he tries again and again. But the great double doors were locked. No time to pick it.

Van Horn knew this, too. He reached the top of the stairs and lifted his bow leisurely. "You know there's nothing better than the thrill of the hunt," his words leak out like smooth death. Neal drops low behind the stairwall, just out of his stalker's sight. "Your move, _Commander_."

Neal didn't know what made him jump. Fear, desperation, one last grapple at hope; whatever the cause, he bolted out from the wall and leapt over the expanse where Van Horn had his arrow marked.

There was a sadistic grin on the hunter's face. At the flash of white, his fingers snapped back. The arrow was free.

In half a second, Neal had willed the world to spin just a little faster, give him just a little more time. There was still too much he needed to fix. But, he couldn't make time go any faster. No one can.

The green laser sight on the combat bow cuts across the bleached whites of his uniform. The palladium-tipped arrow screams through the air.

The crash to the ground caught Neal on his side, stunned, with merlot red flowing through the stark background of a fake military jacket.

There was nothing in him to describe what he'd felt. The sensibleness still left inside him forced Neal to pull himself up to his elbows, painfully inching backwards till his spine jammed into a corner; the space between a doorframe and its door.

Gasping, he collapsed against the wall and held up a hand: a pointless blockade from the power hunting him down.

Van Horn already knew he'd won. It was a short hunt, yes, but satisfying nonetheless. As he sauntered down the stairs, he was chuckling to himself, pulling another arrow into the bow's cradle. "Do you know what this thing can do at close range?"

Still tenacious, still unflappable to the very end, Neal shakes his head. His voice is a grotesque hybrid of agony and exhaustion. "I'll take your word for it."

Van Horn grinned. He had to admit, the kid had spunk. A whole lot more than he expected.

Oh well.

Pulling the arrow back into the bow, he lifted the weapon, little green dot illuminating the dead center of Neal's outstretched hand. Arrow prone to fly, he adjusted his mark and—

"Freeze, FBI!"

Neal could've jumped (had he the energy) when Jones popped out of a hallway he hadn't seen. If he could've felt anything akin to relief at that moment it would have burst through him when Jones ripped the bow out of Van Horn's hands and cuffed him securely in FBI custody.

But when there's a thirty-inch rod of spiked metal lodged in your chest, emotions like relief and joy tend to swirl into nothing. Absently, he noticed the worry painted on Jones' face, but he must've blacked out for a minute because he was aware of nothing else until Peter's voice flooded his ears.

"Neal! Neal! Can you hear me?" everything was a blur around him. Peter was calling to him; there was a warm hand on his left shoulder. A female…Diana was making a call. There was an urgency in her tone like non Neal had never heard. "We need EMTs up here _now_! We've got a man down, I repeat, man down. There's an arrow in the right side of his chest. He's losing blood, fast."

It was then, that Neal realized something wasn't right. He kept blinking, slowly, drunkenly trying to clear his vision but the fuzzy halo around Peter's face just wouldn't go away. His body hurt so much he was beginning to think he was imagining it.

Gently, Peter placed his hands just under Neal's jawline, holding up the boy's head. It hurt Peter so much…Neal's eyes were glassy and red-rimmed. The distinct color was draining from his features; all too fast Neal was becoming a ghost. Peter watched in his own type of agony as Neal tried to speak, tried to form some type of reply, but failed. The arrow had cut off Neal's air; cut off his voice. "It's gon'na be alright, Neal. I promise, alright?" Peter was frantic. Neal's blood was all over his hands. "Just _hang on_."

Neal nodded. It took everything he had, but he nodded. Something wasn't right. Neal wanted to tell Peter, _needed _him to know, but there were no words.

New voices came yelling. Diana was making short commands. "Over here! His name's Neal Caffrey. He's been shot with an arrow."

A male voice. A new face replaced Peter's as the FBI agent reluctantly backed away. "Mr. Caffrey? We're gon'na get you to a hospital, okay? Just stay with us."

While Neal hadn't planned it, the expression on his face just then was much like the look in Sachmo's eyes when Peter said something he just didn't understand. Neal _saw_ the EMT, _heard_ something faint like a voice coming from his moving lips but with every passing word, the man's voice faded from words and tones to the sound of a mosquito in his ear. What on earth was the man talking about?

The Medic recognized Neal's look. "He's going into shock. We've got'ta move him, _now_."

Nods were exchanged between him and his team. Peter and his team hung on every second with bated breath. Two medics with a stretcher appeared. In an instant four men counted to three and lifted Neal as carefully as they could to the white sheet of the gurney. Neal's white jacket was seeping into such a deep crimson that it made Peter sick.

When they'd settled Neal down and strapped him to the wheeled cot, Peter's heart stopped.

Neal's eyes were closed.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

Minutes trudged by like sewage. Emptily, Peter wondered if he'd rubbed up against some type of sedative from the EMT. The ride to New York Downtown Hospital was the longest, most agonizing thing Peter could ever remember. Diana was driving. He couldn't see straight. Everything around him, the traffic, the siren of the ambulance; everything was a blur.

They worked in the White Collar division. His people never got hurt. …not Neal, anyway.

He hardly remembered calling Elizabeth or Mozzie. It was autopilot, a reaction.

"_El," it was her voicemail. 4:15; she was in a meeting. "I'm not…meet me at Downtown Hospital when you get this. Its Neal…"_

"_Moz," of course, Mozzie always answers after two rings. _

"_Suit."_

"_Listen, you need to get to Downtown Hospital. Its Neal."_

_Peter didn't miss Mozzie's sharp inhale. "Dead?"_

_Peter sighed. "Not yet." _

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

The wait in the hospital was even worse, for Peter. Mozzie had gotten there five minutes after the caravan; El an hour later.

"Peter!" her cry to him was more between a sob and a sigh then anything. Instantly, she saw through her husband's "calm" shield and wrapped her arms around him. "I got here as soon as I could. Have you heard anything?"

Peter sighed. His head shook. He couldn't hold the mask around El. Diana and Mozzie quietly excused themselves for 'coffee'. Elizabeth's heart sank when she caught the shining look in Peter's eyes. "No," his voice was low, controlled. "Nothing yet."

There was nothing she could say, nothing to fix the heartbreak around her. She embraced Peter like he'd melt away from her; it encouraged her to feel him do the same.

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

Panic subsided into frustration.

Frustration to a worry.

Worry to a dull ache the size of a watermelon in your gut.

Six hours. 10:07pm.

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

A doctor greatly resembling the original _Doctor Who_ stepped into the waiting room with a clipboard in his hands and a white lab coat sweeping across his knees. When Peter bolted out of his chair (leaving El fumbling for balance), the elderly man smiled softly; smiled like a man who truly appreciated every sweet thing in life.

A few concise words were spoken.

El couldn't hold back from crying.

Mozzie paced nervously, playing with his glasses.

Diana let out a long, shuddering sigh.

It was all Peter could do not to crash to his knees.

Neal…was _alive_.

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

**6**

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep…_

It was the rhythmic noise that pulled Neal out of his slumber. His first thought was to hit _snooze_ and roll over; to feel Sarah's soft skin under his touch. He tried to breath in, take in her sweet, cinnamon scent but—

Something in him repulsed. He could feel his nose crinkling. Whatever that awful smell was, it was certainly _not_ Sarah. Wait. Sarah? A deep groan rasped from Neal's throat. Discernment clouded in his thoughts. For the life of him he couldn't understand why he all of the sudden, felt so…_sad._ He felt like floating, drifting in an empty space grey and colorless. Slowly, memories popped up like rocks on a windshield. There was Jones, that private security facility (what was it called again?), the captive man named Jimmy; Van Horn.

The steady _beep_ that'd melded into the background picked up a tempo.

Neal squeezed his eyes, trying to forget the memory. Van Horn and his black combat bow: they'd cornered him. Van Horn had chased Neal down into a corner like a worthless pest…and shot him.

Neal started, jumping awake like a kid in a thunderstorm. His eyes ripped open and _beeping_ tore through his ears like a lightening strike.

"Breath, Neal! Breath! You're alright, you're in the hospital," there was a voice, firm and protective beside him. As slow and fuzzy and an old movie, Neal's vision caught up with his open eyes.

Ceiling tiles. White, grey, ceiling tiles.

The _beeps_ calmed to a quiet lull.

Reflexively, his body relaxed. Van Horn, the arrow, the _blood_…was it all a dream? Where was Sarah? And who was—

"Neal?" suddenly, Neal matched the voice with a slight pressure on his left arm. Gingerly, he tilted his head.

Peter was there. A grounding touch; a reassuring voice. Neal closed his eyes and sighed…and grimaced at the sudden, acute pain the exhale brought.

"Easy there, buddy," Peter was trying to smile, but failed miserably. Seeing Neal like this, still so weak and pale…it wasn't right. "You had an arrow through your chest, remember?"

Neal groaned softly, a hand taped with medical equipment automatically moving to the source of pain. "Thanks for the reminder," he gasped out.

And just like that, the cobwebs cleared and everything came back to him in a torrent that left Neal spinning. Jones had arrived right on time to save his life and catch Van Horn. The mission was a success. The white commander's uniform…the FBI wouldn't be getting their deposit back on that. And Sarah…

Neal wished he could forget that for just one more minute.

…she'd left him.

"You alright?"again Peter's prodding pulled Neal back to reality.

For the first time, Neal took Peter in. "You look terrible."

Peter snorted a laugh. "Ha. Just you wait. _You_ look so bad I think El's got dinners, lunches, and assorted cakes planned for you for a _year_."

Neal smiled. Yeah, he'd complain and refuse, but he deep down, he loved El's motherly compassion nearly as much as he loved irritating Peter.

Silence settled for a peaceful moment.

Neal could tell Peter was warring with something inside him.

"Listen, Neal. Before everybody starts coming in here and spoiling you…"

Neal was half expecting a heavy handed reprimand—it would be the last straw he needed to go through with Mozzie's plan and steal from Peter.

What came left his heart torn.

"You were…really good back there. But…" Peter ran a nervous hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. You should'a never got hurt,"

Neal opened his mouth to protest, but Peter shut it down with a raised hand. "I know you're the hero and all today but, Neal you scared the hell out'ta me. Don't ever do that again!" Peter's voice rose like a parent scolding their child then faded to a soft confession. "It wouldn't be the same without you around."

Neal felt himself melt into the hospital bed. Did he really mean that much? "And hey," Peter smiled a bit. "I know we've…been through some stuff, but I want you to know, if you ever want to talk; you know…just _talk_, about Sarah or life or…whatever…I'll be there, okay? You deserve some happiness in your life."

Neal nodded without really comprehending. "Is this your best bedside manner talking?"

Peter chuckled. "Probably, but I still mean it."

Uneasiness settled in like a loaded gun for just a moment until—

"Neal! You're awake!" El's voice chirped happily from the door.

"Ah, this is how you tell a true master…one who can con themselves even out of death," Mozzie smirked from behind. "We come hailing gluten free, dairy free treats and rather soft well-wishing teddies."

Neal grinned.

These people. Peter. El. Mozzie, if he'd forgive him.

Maybe he couldn't say no to the Paradise of Treasure waiting for him and Moz, but maybe…maybe he really didn't need it after all.

**End.**

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><p><strong>AN:** Thank you to everyone who read. I hope it proved to be a pleasent diversion. Reviews are always appreciated. Thanks for your time and interest,

~Strider


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